Rossellini’s singing loudly in the shower. His daily game of tennis, and he’s never played better. He beat one of his usual partners hollow. Robin, who was not in good shape. So perhaps not so surprising. Dresses quickly. The game ahead is likely to be much harder. Pillbox, a little blue pill. Sure of himself. Barely a quarter of an hour left to grab a salad and a coffee at the clubhouse before going back to the office.
Robin’s waiting for him at a table by the window. Rossellini looks him over. Tall, slim, fair-haired, a graduate of ENA, the prestigious École Nationale d’Administration, a state councillor getting on for fifty, and a member of the French stock exchange regulatory body: an excellent track record you could say. But he lacks ambition and is stagnating in the civil service. And he’s a practising Catholic, married, father of six. Unlucky.
Rossellini sits down at the table and places on it an orange cardboard file which he slides towards Robin. A thrill of excitement, then he attacks the tomato and mozzarella salad in front of him. Robin half opens the file, a packet of large-format photos. The first one shows a close-up of his own face wearing a dark wig, his face caked with make-up, all smudged. His mouth is open, his eyes closed, in the throes of orgasm. Retches. How could he look so ugly? And standing over him, the drag queen from the night before, hands on his hips, fucking his arse. Closes the file, ashen. Pours himself a big glass of water, drinks it slowly, his eyes half closed. He looks up at Rossellini, who’s almost finished his tomato and mozzarella salad.
‘You astound me, Philippe, I thought I knew you …’
‘Am I entitled to say the same to you?’
Weak smile. ‘The ENA old boys’ network isn’t what people think. So what’s this all about?’
‘Today or tomorrow, courtesy of the Financial Securities Committee, you’ll be receiving at your office around ten anonymous letters drawing your attention to the fluctuations of Matra share prices at the time its takeover of Thomson was announced.’
‘These fluctuations have not escaped the Financial Securities Committee’s attention. But we can’t see Lagardère becoming involved in this type of operation for the time being.’
‘Lagardère, no. But his partner in the operation, Kim, the Daewoo boss? What was to stop him speculating on Matra shares? Do you know who Kim is?’
Robin finishes eating his warm goat’s cheese on a bed of dandelion leaves. He chews meticulously, down to the last crumb, his gaze darting back and forth from his plate to the hardbound file. Then he puts down his knife and fork, wipes his mouth and gives a long sigh.
‘Very well. I expect the prints and the negatives as soon as the investigation starts.’
‘Of course.’
He rises. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry today. No time for coffee. Sorry I played so badly, I was a bit tired. Rough night, work, worries …’
And he smiles, picks up the orange file as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and walks out, leaving Rossellini to pick up the bill. Classy, you’ve got to hand it to him. And the wild sex, who’d have believed it? Rossellini feels a pang of jealousy. Flashback: Valentin, we’ll cross-check my contacts and yours. You’ll see, you’ll be surprised. This is probably only the beginning. He’s about to get an insight into Kim’s crooked system. He’ll have to probe deep and rummage around. Life is assuming unexpected colours. A ray of sunshine on his back as he extends his legs, let the pressure relax, savour the moment. Blackmail: a new sport that gives him a thrill and a great deal of pleasure.
The door half opens.
‘Mrs Neveu?’
‘Mm …’
A wall of suspicion. Montoya puts his shoulder to the door and shoves, flashing his press pass.
‘I’m a journalist and I’m writing an article on Daewoo.’ He steps inside. I wasn’t able to get to the cemetery. Please accept my condolences.’ Now he’s standing in the cramped hallway. ‘May I talk to you?’
She shrugs.
‘Seeing as you’re already inside, come into the kitchen. The girls are in the front room watching TV.’
American cartoons, probably. Tinny voices and outbursts of children’s laughter. The kitchen isn’t big. He sits down, she walks round in circles before sitting down too.
‘Mrs Neveu, before his accident, did your husband talk to you about the Daewoo strike?’ She’s still very tense.
‘No. He came home very late and I was asleep. Next morning when the alarm went off, he just told me that the factory had burned down and that I should let him sleep. I got the girls ready and we left together. Then I dropped them off at school on my way to work as usual. I never saw him again.’
‘Did you know that your husband smoked a bit of dope from time to time at the factory?’
Smile. She’s beginning to relax. ‘I don’t know what you want, but that’s not news. He wasn’t the only one.’
‘Do you know his dealer?’
‘Are you joking? Do you think I’ve got time to think about all that? With my job, my two girls, and a husband to look after? I’ll show you my schedule if you like.’
‘How did you find out that he’d had an accident and that he was dead?’
‘The police told me. The first night, he didn’t come home. Well, I wasn’t too worried. He was a womaniser, my husband. A womaniser and he lived life in the fast lane. I went to bed and slept. The next morning, he still wasn’t back and he didn’t often spend the whole night away. When he didn’t come home the next night either, I started to get worried and called the police. They found his body the day after. They told me that when I reported him missing they took a look in the woods below our estate, and that’s where they found him. An accidental fall which broke his neck.’
‘Have you seen the forensic report?’ She immediately becomes suspicious again.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you ask to see it?’
She gets up, walks over to the window, and stands gazing out over the plateau stretching as far as the horizon. Apart from a few clumps of trees and silhouettes of gigantic silos to break it up, the prospect is endlessly flat under the bleak late afternoon light of a day without sunshine. After what seems like an age, she comes back over to him, a look of profound exhaustion on her face.
‘I’m from the countryside. My parents have a farm on the plateau. When I met Étienne, I was sixteen, I dreamed of the city, of going out and having fun, seeing shows, meeting people. I got a job as a cashier in a supermarket thirty kilometres from here. I see people all right, that’s for sure. A husband who’s always chasing women, never at home, two kids to look after, to bring up almost alone on a housing estate that’s miles from everywhere. And this view. It’s unbelievable how beautiful the plateau can look when you see it from the windows of our farm, and how desolate and sinister it seems from the third floor of a council flat. So, when Mr Quignard came to tell me that he would ensure that the funeral expenses would be borne by Daewoo, and that the company will pay me compensation for my husband’s death, I didn’t ask any questions, I said fine. Straight away. I’m going back to the farm with my two girls, and that’ll be the end of it. It’ll be cheaper for me and I’ll always be able to find a job. And what Daewoo gives me, even if it doesn’t amount to much, will help me and my girls with the move. Now, go away and leave me alone.’
She turns her back on him and fumbles in a cupboard to occupy her hands. Montoya gets up and leaves, slamming the front door. On the landing, he leans against the door jamb, listening. He hears the TV and the girls’ voices, their mother bustling about. She must be wishing she hadn’t talked to me. But she had to unburden herself, one way or another, in her solitude. She’s wondering what she can get out of it. He waits. And then the click as she picks up the telephone, which he’d noticed on the wall in the hall. She dials a number with nervous concentration.
‘Mr Quignard? … I had a visit from a journalist … No, I don’t know who he is. He asked me questions about Étienne’s death … If he was in the habit of walking down that path, if I�
�d read the forensic report … Of course … Like we said … but I wanted to let you know that I’m prepared to move right away, this week. Only it’ll cost me …’
At least she’s got her head screwed on. Montoya escapes noiselessly down the stairs before the end of the phone call.
Quignard replaces the handset very gently, trying to control his movement. Be calm, calm. Today could turn into a nightmare if I’m not careful. Pours a double brandy, turns on Radio Classique and sinks into his armchair. Let’s take stock. This morning, I find out from that half-crazy Lepetit woman that Park’s fraudulent accounts were seen by Étienne Neveu. Perhaps. She wouldn’t be capable of making up something like that. Who does Neveu tell about these lists? She answers: everyone. That I don’t believe. It happened more than ten days ago. And Maréchal wasn’t aware of it? I wouldn’t have heard anything from Amrouche? Impossible. Neveu was with someone when he saw the lists. Someone who, for one reason or another, didn’t say anything until yesterday. Lepetit couldn’t keep it to herself for more than twenty-four hours. Now, think. At the same time, a journalist tries to talk to Neveu’s widow and asks her questions that prove he thinks Étienne Neveu’s death was no accident. A brilliant accident, well orchestrated, everyone was convinced. Quignard pictures the blaze, its unexpected fierceness, the roar, familiar in a strange way, the showers of sparks, the iridescent flashes, a lavish display that had everybody mesmerised, and Étienne’s diminutive physique, rushing from one group to another, nobody taking any notice or listening to him. Not a single witness mentioned him to the police. Even Maréchal, standing next to me, his eyes riveted, afire in his valley, had forgotten about him, until the arrival of that pain-in-the-arse this morning. Question: how had this shit-stirrer got on the trail of Neveu’s widow? Someone talked yesterday, to Lepetit and to the shit-stirrer. Someone who was in the factory with Neveu. Who saw the lists with Neveu. And who’d kept quiet about it until yesterday. Why? Because he and Neveu must have been up to something together. Who can know? I can’t count on Maréchal any more, he’s put himself out of the running. Amrouche. Of course, Amrouche. Glance at his watch. Not quite six o’clock. He’s probably still there, he always works very late. Smug little smile. Smart move, taking him on. I knew he’d be useful to me sooner or later. He turns off the radio, sends the secretary home, then heads for Amrouche’s office near the staff lounge and the coffee machine. He hammers on the door and pushes it open. Amrouche, hunched over his work in the light of his desk lamp, is handwriting a note about a Daewoo worker he’d spoken to that afternoon to find out if he was willing to take on a job elsewhere.
‘Ali, come and have a coffee with me. We’re the only ones still here, and you and I need to discuss a delicate matter.’
Amrouche leaps up. Quignard is already at the machine, he hands him a cup of coffee, picks up his own, and the two men sit down.
‘I’m finishing off the paperwork for Étienne Neveu’s compensation.’ A pause. ‘Well, for his widow and his two girls. Do you know about it?’
Amrouche nods. Bosses like Quignard are rare.
‘I have a problem. Someone came to see me this afternoon,’ he hesitates, ‘he asked me not to divulge his visit.’ Hesitates again. ‘He’s not a Daewoo employee. In short, he claims that Neveu was involved in drug trafficking in Pondange, and that he was hanging around in the woods to do a deal on the day he died. That would be awkward.’
‘I don’t think it’s true.’
‘If the police arrest any dealers over the next few months who implicate Neveu, it’ll make things difficult for me.’
‘In my view, there’s no danger. Étienne smoked a bit, like a lot of kids in the factory. But I’ve never heard of him being involved in any dealing.’
‘My contact claims Neveu took advantage of the strike to deal on the actual factory premises.’
Big smile. ‘He was much too busy for that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Amrouche falters, blots out the insistent image of Karim and Étienne slumped in front of the computer and closes his eyes for a moment to try and shut out the arses jiggling mechanically on the screen. Then: ‘He spent most of the day with a girl.’
‘Do you know her? Can you send her to see me so I can complete the paperwork?’
‘I know her, yes, but I can’t send her to you. She’s a very well brought-up girl, and very reserved. She allowed herself to be sweet-talked by Neveu, who was an incorrigible skirt-chaser, because she was devastated by Émilienne’s accident that morning and thrown off balance by everything that happened that day. But she couldn’t bear anyone to know about her fling, or me to have told you about it. Or her father. She hasn’t set foot outside her home since the strike. No, don’t count on me for that.’
‘Fine. I’ll just have to take your word for it, Ali. Which I will, because you know Daewoo’s employees better than anyone, and I trust you completely. Thank you for your help.’
Quignard returns to his office. Computer. Daewoo personnel file. If the girl was devastated by this Émilienne’s accident, she must have been on the same production line, the same shift. So she saw the electrocution. An accident is only devastating if you witness it directly. Otherwise the factories would all be empty, it would be impossible to find anyone to work in them. He ends up with a list of eight girls. Eliminate Émilienne, and Rolande Lepetit, since I know where she was during the strike. I’m looking for a young girl – the allusion to her father suggests she was probably unmarried. The records list two unmarried girls on Rolande Lepetit’s shift: Jeanne Beauvallon and Aisha Saidani. Or her father. I’ll take Aisha Saidani first. He reads the employee record carefully. It’s her. She lives at the same address as Rolande Lepetit. The shit-stirrer comes and questions Rolande. That makes sense, her dismissal sparked off the strike, and he meets Aisha into the bargain. Cosy little chat, all three of them. Aisha, who’s kept quiet so far to protect her reputation as a shy virgin, probably opens up and confides in the shit-stirrer – the power of the media – and tells him about her experience of the strike like a porn film, and mentions the lists. And the arsonists? Lepetit turns up in my office, the journalist at the widow’s. It all fits. And I’m up shit creek.
What to do? No rush. First of all, think. Quignard pours himself a third brandy, switches off the lights and sits in the dark looking out over the valley, his feet on the bay windowsill. To recap the sequence of events: Aisha looks at the lists with Neveu. Talks to Rolande Lepetit about it and yesterday, also to the journalist. Nothing to suggest she saw the arsonists too, since nobody’s mentioned it. They could have parted company at the end of the day. The journalist goes to see Neveu’s widow. So he’s made a connection between the lists and Neveu’s death, he can do that by simple logical deduction. He gets nothing out of Neveu’s widow. For the time being he has no proof and I’m in the clear. Two good points. As for Aisha, it’s unlikely shell talk to the police. She’d have to face her father, public opprobrium, and the Neveu family. That’s a lot. Anyway, what would be the point? The police won’t go looking for her. If she did decide to testify they’d undermine her testimony to salvage their investigation. Take a worst-case scenario and all that will take time, longer than I need. As a last resort, we pin it all on Park. As for Maréchal … Old solidarity between steelworkers. Worn out. As Head of Department he can always say he doesn’t give a damn. I don’t believe him. He’ll keep it shut. He takes a large swig of brandy, there’s a feeling of well-being, ripples of pleasure. The smartest way is to use Amrouche to keep an eye on the father and the daughter, do nothing and see what happens.
Quignard puts down his empty glass, gets up, stretches, then walks down through the empty, ill-lit building to the exit where his driver’s waiting for him.
‘Mr Tomaso asks if you can have dinner with him this evening at the Oiseau Bleu.’ Quignard looks at his watch.
‘This late?’
‘Mr Tomaso seems very insistent.’
To talk about the explosion in his nig
htclub, no doubt. He climbs into the Mercedes. After all why not? A slap-up meal, the girls, Deborah, much better than eating a solitary dinner at home staring at the valley while listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
‘Fine. Head for Nancy.’
As soon as he leaves the Neveu apartment, Montoya phones Valentin.
‘Call me back in five minutes.’
He checks his watch. Five minutes to kill, hanging around the car park where kids are playing football. He walks to the edge of the woods, spots the start of the path Étienne Neveu must have taken the day he died. It can be seen clearly from the windows of the apartment block. Was Neveu alone when he set off down this path? Did the cops make any effort to get statements? Doesn’t know. And you won’t get to know either. Poor guy. A little wad of dosh and the deal is done.
The football flies in his direction. Montoya dives forward, blocks it with his chest, swerves away from two kids charging towards him, aims a long, plunging ball from his instep which sails between the two heaps of clothes marking the goal. Then he saunters off, feeling light. I’ve got my man. Quignard. I haven’t felt so good for … a very long time. The five minutes are up.
It’s Valentin on the other end of the phone again. Montoya opens fire.
‘I’ve identified the kingpin in our case, the man who’s pulling the strings at Daewoo and who’s in business with Tomaso. One Quignard, boss of a design consultancy and a local bigwig; so far, run-of-the-mill for a little provincial town. But he’s also very well connected in Brussels, the strongman of the European Development Plan, the man who rubber-stamps all the region’s subsidy grants. He’s been a non-executive director of Daewoo for some time, and since the fire he’s taken over the reins.’
Lorraine Connection Page 15
